A sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe

A sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe. The ripe floods of wheats smoked with yellow dust. The metal parts of the reapers were too hot not to be touched with the hand. It was painful to look up at the bluish-yellow, flaming sky. Where the wheat ended a saffron sweep of clover began.
The entire village of Tatarsk had moved into the steppe. The horses choked in the heat and the pungent dust, and were restive as they flagged the reapers. The wind blowing from the river raise clouds of dust from the steppe, and the sun was enveloped in a tingling haze.
Since early morning Piotra, who was forking the wheat off the reaper platform, had drunk half a bucketful of water. Within a minute of his drinking the warm, unpleasant liquid his throat was dry again. His shirt was wet through, the sweat streamed from his face, there was a continual trilling ring in his ears. Her face covered with her kerchief, her shirt unbuttoned, Daria was gathering the corn into stooks. A greyish, granular sweat ran down between her urgent breasts. Natalia was leading the horses. Her cheeks were burnt the colour of beetroot, her eyes were filled with tears because of the glaring sun. Pantaleimon was walking up and down the swathes of corn, his wet shirt scalding his body. His beard felt as though it were a stream of melting black cart grease flowing from his chest.
At last Daria could stand no more. ‘Piotra!’ she called. ‘Let’s stop.’
‘Wait a bit: we’ll finish this row,’ he answered.
‘Let’s put it off till it’s cooler. I’ve had enough.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The estate of Yagodnoe lay in a spacious valley

The estate of Yagodnoe lay in a spacious valley. The wind blew changeably from north or south, summer advanced on the valley, the autumn rustled with falling leaves, winter flung its forces of frost and snow against it, but Yagodnoe remained sunk in its wooden torpor. So the days passed crawling over the high wall that cut off the state from the rest of the world. The farmyard was always alive with black ducks wearing red spectacles; the guinea fowls scattered like a beady rain; gaily feathered peacocks called hoarsely from the roof of the stables. The old general was fond of all kind of birds, and even kept a maimed crane. In November it wrung the heart-strings with its copper tongue, yearning cry as it heard the call of the wild cranes flying to the south. But it could not fly, for one wing hung uselessly at its side. As the general stood at the window and watched the bird stretching out its neck and jumping, fluttering off the ground, he laughed; and the bass tone of his laughter rocked through the empty hall like clouds of tobacco smoke.
During all the time of Gregor’s stay at Yagodnoe only two events disturbed the sleepy, monotonous life,; the coming of Aksinia’s child and the loss of a prize gander. The inhabitants of Yagodnoe quickly grew accustomed to the baby girl, and they found some of the gander’s feathers in the meadow and concluded that a fox had carried it off.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The night before Earter Sunday

The night before Earter Sunday the sky was overcast with masses of black cloud and rain began to fall. A raw darkness enveloped Tatarsk. At dusk the ice of the Don began to crack with a protracted rolling groan, and crushed by a mass of broken ice the first floe emerged from the water. The ice broke suddenly over a length of three miles, and drifted downstream. The floes crashed against one another and against the banks, to the sound of the church bell ringing measuredly for the service. At the first bend where the Don sweeps to the left, the ice was dammed up. The roar and scraping of the moving floes reached the village. The lads had gathered in the church enclosure. Through the open doors came the muffled tones of the service, light streamed gaily through the windows, whilst outside in the darkness the lads surreptiously tickled and kissed the girls, and whispered dirty stories to one another.
From the Don came a flowing whisper, rustle and crunch, as though a strongly built, gaily woman as tall as a poplar were passing by, her great, invisible skirts rustling.
At midnight, Mitka Korshunov, riding a horse bareback, clattering through the Egyptian darkness up to the church. He tied the reins to the horse’s mane, and with a smack of the hand on her flanks sent her back home. He listened to the sound of the hoofs for a moment, then, adjusting his belt, he went into the church. At the porch he removed his cap , bent his head devoutly. And thrusting aside the women, pressed to the altar. The Cossacks were crowed in a black mass on the left; on the right was an azure throng of women. Mitka found his father in the front row, and seizing him by the elbow, whispered into his ear:
‘Father, come outside for a moment.’
As he pressed out of the church through the dense curtain of mingled odours, Mitka nostrils quivered. He was overwhelmed by the vapour of burning wax, the stench of women’s sweaty bodies, the deathly odour of long-lying clothes brought out only at Christmas and Easter time, the smell of damp leather, naphthaline , and other, indistinguishable scents.
In the porch Mitka put his mouth close to his father’s ear and said:
‘Natalia is dying.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry